So six days passed, and on the seventh returned...

So six days passed, and on the seventh returned

The courier, with a message from the Queen

Summoning Drake to court, bidding him bring

Also such curious trifles of his voyage

As might amuse her, also be of good cheer

She bade him, and rest well content his life

In Gloriana's hands were safe: so Drake

Laughingly landed with his war-bronzed crew

Amid the wide-eyed throng on Plymouth beach

And loaded twelve big pack-horses with pearls

Beyond all price, diamonds, crosses of gold,

Rubies that smouldered once for Aztec kings,

And great dead Incas’ gem-encrusted crowns.

Also, he said, we'll add a sack or twain

Of gold doubloons, pieces of eight, moidores,

And such-like Spanish trash, for those poor lords

At court, lilies that toil not neither spin,

Wherefore, methinks their purses oft grow lean

In these harsh times.‘ Twere even as well their tongues

Wagged in our favour, now, as in our blame.

Six days thereafter a fearful whisper reached

Mendoza, plenipotentiary of Spain

In London, that the pirate Drake was now

In secret conference with the Queen, nay more,

That he, the Master-thief of the golden world,

Drake, even he, that bloody buccaneer,

Had six hours’ audience with her Majesty

Daily, nay more, walked with her in her garden

Alone, among the fiery Autumn leaves,

Talking of God knows what, and suddenly

The temporizing diplomatic voice

Of caution he was wont to expect from England

And blandly accept as his imperial due

Changed to a ringing key of firm resolve,

Resistance, nay, defiance. For when he came

Demanding audience of the Queen, behold,

Her officers of state with mouths awry

Informed the high ambassador of Spain,

Despite his pomp and circumstance, the Queen

Could not receive him, being in conference

With some rough seaman, pirate, what you will,

A fellow made of bronze, a buccaneer,

Maned like a lion, bearded like a pard,

With hammered head, clamped jaws, and great deep eyes

That burned with fierce blue colours of the brine,

And liked not Spain — Drake!‘ Twas the very name,

One Francis Drake! a Titan that had stood,

Thundering commands against the thundering heavens,

On lightning-shattered, storm-swept decks and drunk

Great draughts of glory from the rolling sea,

El Draque! El Draque! Nor could she promise aught

To Spain's ambassador, nor see his face

Again, while yet one Spanish musketeer

Remained in Ireland.

Vainly the Spaniard raged

Of restitution, recompense; for now

Had Drake brought up the little Golden Hynde

To London, and the rumor of her wealth

Out-topped the wild reality. The crew

Were princes as they swaggered down the streets

In weather-beaten splendour. Out of their doors

To wonder and stare the jostling citizens ran

When They went by; and through the length and breadth

Of England, now, the gathering glory of life

Shone like the dawn. O'er hill and dale it streamed,

Dawn, everlasting and almighty dawn,

Making a golden pomp of every oak —

Had not its British brethren swept the seas?—

In each remotest hamlet, by the hearth,

The cart, the grey church-porch, the village pump

By meadow and mill and old manorial hall,

By turnpike and by tavern, farm and forge,

Men staved the crimson vintage of romance

And held it up against the light and drank it,

And with it drank confusion to the wrath

That menaced England, but eternal honour,

While blood ran in their veins, to Francis Drake.